The Bourgeoisie ConfessesDarling, I really have no stomach for the appalling poverty of African children,The Bourgeoisie Confesses
and neither do I have it in me, truth be told, to shed too many tears for the flood victims of some indo-chinese delta state,
just as I am dry-eyed about drought-stricken farmers, while those tales of Bhopal poison clouds at the time, they barely took my breath away.
Indeed I have yet to get into a sweat over global warming, but I will, sincerely I promise, weep for this beautiful world if ever the oil runs dry.
That Lottery Called LoveOh, that fateful, that hateful, that horrible night when you said, with what seemed such a savage delight, through hot spittle-specked lips that were twisted with spite that you hated the sound, and the smell, and the sight of me so! and with oh! such a passion.That Lottery Called Love
I was credulous, callow, jejune, and naïve, and admittedly yes, wore my heart on my sleeve but your timing was cruel dear, I couldn’t believe of all nights, it was this one - our wedding day’s eve that you chose to disclose your decision.
So I stood open-mouthed, I was shattered, in shock as
The SeamstressGirl in ribbons running rivers from the blade dripping silver, spilling crimson threads unpicked and dress unmade. Did she wash her hair up velveteen for him did silk her thighs, were satin splashed her breasts? Did streams rush over stony beds, were needles sailing veins, did scissors slice through leatherette, did she in rags wade quilts for him, did skeins uncoil? Did waters knot?The Seamstress
Girl flowing hem to edge, drops stitches, over locks; girl rushing falls.
After The Office PartyI survey with sour eyes while washing up my luncheon pots the scattered aftershock of someone’s office party; the drying sandwich no-one wants the slice of melon, grown a sallow skin, a half gnawed breadstick, withered ringAfter The Office Party
of cucumber, it makes me wonder will this be it when I retire: a minor mess, ignored by most, a mild annoyance to the next to enter.
All at sixes and sevens
(this is kind of a stupid question, I guess, because your icon is a boat.)
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red roses are blue
bourbon.
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Behold! I am that which must always overcome itself. - Friedrich Nietzche
Now you can buy my book here!--------->>> [link]
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Behold! I am that which must always overcome itself. - Friedrich Nietzche
Now you can buy my book here!--------->>> [link]
Be watching you, in as non-creepy a way as possible.
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Blottingpaper -- my blog | Mimesis -- an international journal of poetry, artwork and opinion
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Blottingpaper -- my blog | Mimesis -- an international journal of poetry, artwork and opinion
creep a little closer,
let me feel the tender touch
of your hundred little legs
that I love so much..
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Blottingpaper -- my blog | Mimesis -- an international journal of poetry, artwork and opinion
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